Chapter Eleven – The Ridge Run Back
The crawler sat like a rusted beast on its side, half-buried in the sand, its ribs jutting through torn plating. Its metal shell whispered and groaned as the wind shifted over it, but the night beyond was louder—chittering, scraping, a tide closing in.
Fry didn't waste time. She scrambled up the hull, hands slipping on grit, heart pounding hard enough to blur her vision. Johns was right behind her, muttering curses, his light beam dancing erratically in the dark.
Inside, the crawler smelled of oil and decay. Sand crunched underfoot as Shazza pried open the storage compartment. The power cell sat there like a dull gem, heavy and squat, its surface faintly pulsing with stored energy.
"Got it," Shazza said, lifting it with both arms.
It was heavier than it looked—her knees trembled under the weight. Fry moved to help, but Riddick's voice cut through the dark like a knife.
"Don't stand still. They're moving in."
Fry turned. Through the crawler's broken windshield, shapes were emerging—sleek, black, and too many. Their wings folded and unfolded in jittery movements, their eyes glinting like wet stones in the flicker of the hand-lamp.
Johns raised his shotgun. "Let's go!"
They burst from the crawler in a ragged sprint, Shazza and Fry carrying the cell between them, Johns covering their flank, Riddick moving ahead with unsettling ease. He didn't run like a man—he flowed, almost reading the ground, dodging where the shadows were deepest.
The ridge path was narrow, a broken spine of rock with the ravine yawning below. The creatures came from above now, diving in shrieking arcs. Fry's flare sputtered, painting the air in angry red. One dove too close; Riddick caught it mid-lunge, his shiv punching into the soft joint of its neck. He kicked it aside without slowing.
The chittering grew to a fever pitch. Johns fired again, the blast echoing off stone. A spray of acid hissed where the shot hit, eating through the ridge edge. Pebbles tumbled into the dark below.
"Move!" Fry yelled, voice raw.
They were almost halfway when a shape swooped low, talons grazing Shazza's back. She stumbled, the cell slipping in her grip. Fry caught it, but the weight wrenched her shoulder, sending her staggering toward the drop.
Riddick was there in a blink, grabbing her by the arm and shoving her forward. "Don't look down."
The ridge dipped into shadow—darker than the rest. The air was cooler here, and the sound changed: the creatures stopped swooping. Fry didn't trust it.
Neither did Riddick.
"They're not gone," he muttered. "They're waiting."
They made the final stretch with lungs burning, the skiff's faint green glow finally visible through the gloom. Johns was almost laughing—relief or madness, Fry couldn't tell.
Then, just as they hit the last ten meters, one of the creatures slammed into Johns from the side, knocking him off his feet. The lamp spun away, bouncing once before shattering. Darkness swallowed them.
Screams—Johns' and the thing's—mixed into a wet, tearing noise. Riddick didn't hesitate. He pulled Fry forward with one hand and shoved Shazza through the skiff's hatch with the other.
The cell hit the deck with a dull thud. Fry spun, looking for Johns—
—but the black outside had already taken him.
Chapter Twelve – The Last Flight
The hatch slammed shut behind them, sealing the skiff from the screaming dark outside. The sound dulled to a muffled, hungry chorus. Inside, the air smelled of rust, stale oil, and something faintly metallic—the scent of a vessel too long waiting for its purpose.
Shazza dropped the power cell into its slot with a grunt. It clicked into place, the deck humming faintly underfoot. Fry moved to the controls, her fingers trembling as she flipped the ignition sequence.
"Come on, come on…" she whispered.
Riddick stood at the porthole, eyes glinting in the dim light, watching the black shapes swirl around the hull. They didn't smash against it. They didn't need to. The predators knew hunger and time would do the work for them if the humans failed to leave.
The skiff sputtered, lights flickering weakly across the dash. Fry cursed, smacking the console.
"She'll hold," Shazza panted. "She's got to hold."
The hum built into a steady vibration. The engines coughed, then roared awake—briefly drowning out the creatures. Hope sparked for the first time in hours.
Then Fry noticed something.
"Where's Jack?"
The girl wasn't in the cabin. She wasn't by the hatch. Panic cut through the fragile relief. Fry turned to Riddick. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture tightened.
"She went for the packs," Shazza said, voice breaking. "Said she could grab more food—"
Fry didn't wait. She was already at the hatch controls.
"You open that door, they'll be in here," Riddick warned.
"Then you'd better make sure they're not," Fry shot back.
The hatch hissed, the night roaring in like a wave. Shapes darted in the darkness beyond—quick, too quick—but Fry saw her: Jack, pinned against a rock outcrop, one of the winged nightmares stalking closer.
Fry ran.
The thing lunged, claws outstretched—then stopped mid-air as Riddick's shiv burst through its eye from the side. He wrenched it free and kicked the body away. Fry grabbed Jack's hand, pulling her toward the skiff.
They made it to the hatch as another shadow dived. Riddick stayed outside, blocking the way, his movements blurring in the dim light. The hiss of acid blood on rock mixed with his low, almost amused laugh.
"Go," he told Fry, shoving Jack inside.
"Not without you," she said.
For a moment, they stood in the half-light, the black beyond them breathing. Riddick's head tilted, like he was listening to something only he could hear.
"You'd die for them," he said quietly. "I get it now."
The next instant, he was moving—slamming the hatch from outside. Fry lunged for the controls, but the lock engaged. She could hear him out there, boots scraping on rock, the wet thud of strikes, the creatures' screams.
Then silence.
Her hands hovered over the release. If she opened it, they'd all be dead in seconds. If she didn't… Riddick was gone.
The engines roared again, pulling the skiff forward. Fry gripped the controls so tightly her knuckles whitened. Through the small viewport, the ridge fell away behind them, the black swarm circling, shrinking, and disappearing into the eternal night.
She didn't know if Riddick was dead. She wasn't sure she'd ever know.
However, in the hum of the engines and the faint warmth of Jack's hand gripping hers, she decided to keep flying.
Epilogue – Eyes in the Dark
The skiff carved through the upper winds, the endless night below giving way to a bruised horizon. The faintest trace of dawn—or something like it—bled into the sky.
Fry sat slumped in the pilot's chair, eyes half-closed, every muscle in her body aching. Jack was curled up against a bulkhead, fast asleep, her face pale but peaceful. Shazza sat quietly at the back, staring out the small rear viewport.
"Think he made it?" she asked without looking away.
Fry didn't answer.
The truth was, she had no idea. She wanted to believe it, wanted to think that the man who could see in the dark and move as if a shadow could also outrun death. However, believing didn't make it real.
Down on the planet, far beyond the point where the skiff could see, a shape stirred among the rocks. The swarm had moved on, leaving behind a field of broken, twitching bodies. Black blood pooled in the dust.
From the stillness, a figure rose. Slow at first, shoulders rolling as if waking from a deep sleep. His goggles hung loose around his neck, eyes gleaming silver in the dim light. A faint smirk curved his lips.
He wiped the blade clean on a fallen creature's wing, slid it into his belt, and looked to the sky.
The skiff was just a fading speck.
"Fair trade," Riddick murmured, voice low enough to be mistaken for the wind. Then he turned and walked into the darkness, the night swallowing him whole.
Somewhere above, the stars shifted, and for a moment, it looked as if the dark itself was moving with him.